LAW OF THE FRONTIER

By Rod De Bowes

Confederate General Robert E. Lee has surrendered.  After four long years the Civil War is  over, and ex-Captain Shyler 'Shy' Boedeker, late of the Michigan 5th Calvary has suddenly found himself footloose and unemployed.  His ex-sergeant and best friend John Taylor offers him a partnership in his ranch in Texas, which he accepts.  They quickly begin their journey, picking up a few old comrades also heading west along the way.  But upon their arrival in Texas they find that most Texans are still willing to fight Yankees at the drop of a hat, and not ready to admit defeat.  Reaching John's ranch, they find his house and barn have been burned down and his well salted. Realizing that staying to work the ranch would result in constant fighting with their neighbors, a fight they could not win, they decide to round up John's cattle and drive them north.  It's soon apparent they are going to need more help, so John and Shy head to Brownsville where a friend of John's lives. En-route, they come across the tracks of a Comanche war party with a white female and child held captive.  Not willing to leave them in Comanche hands, they plan a daring rescue.  Catching the Indians drunk on stolen liquor, they rescue the woman and child during a fierce fight.  After a forced march to Brownsville, they make contact with ex-Texas Ranger  Joshua Williams. Times are tough in post war Texas with little cash and few jobs, and men are desperate.  Joshua recruits enough men to make the drive, and they round up a herd of three thousand head of cattle and start north to Kansas.  They face three months of brutal work, driving the herd through hostile Indian lands, braving storms, herd cutters, and everything man and nature can throw against them. And with them rides the beautiful widow Kelsea Stone and her young son who they had rescued. One woman among twenty men, inflaming jealousy, and pitting friend against friend in a competition for her love. Tensions mount and tempers shorten as the drive nears the end of the trail, and gunsmoke and more blood will soon be spilled.  For they are among the first trailblazers across a lawless frontier where the only law is the gun on their hip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977268457

Rod De Bowes

Rod De Bowes was born and raised in South Florida and now lives in Colorado.  Rod is retired after working 21 years for Law Enforcement Agencies in Florida and Colorado. He has also worked as a Coal Miner and E.M.T. His Grandfather was a rancher in Wyoming before moving to Alaska where he made several fortunes as a Gold Miner.  His Great Grandfather was a respected Wyoming rancher and Lawman who was a friend and neighbor to the famous outlaw Butch Cassidy.

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Law of the Frontier

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2024 Rod De Bowes

v4.0

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The final fight narrated in this book is based upon true events which actually occurred in Trinidad, Colorado during the Christmas Holidays of 1867.

It is known as ‘The Christmas Day War’ and occurred pretty much as narrated in this story. I have taken the liberty of inserting my characters into this historical event, however all of my characters and their actions are fictional. The names of the actual people involved in this event have been changed in my novel, however Kit Carson had just retired as the Commander of Fort Garland a few months before this incident occurred, and Bat Masterson was only fourteen years old when this story takes place. But Bat is such an interesting character I placed him in the story anyway. It would be another six years before he headed to Texas where he would be involved in the historic fight at Adobe Walls in 1874 and began his famous career. Later he would actually serve as the Marshal of Trinidad for a year in the early 1880’s.

However, it is true that 200 Ute Indians rode into town and offered Sheriff Juan Gutierrez their help against the Anglos as recounted in this novel. One of their warriors had been in town at the time of the first battle and was accidently shot by the Anglo side of the ‘War’ during the initial exchange of gunfire. The Indian was not seriously injured, but it angered the Utes. When Sheriff Gutierrez politely turned down their offer to help fight the Anglos they went up onto the nearby mountainsides and watched the fight until the weather turned bad. When it did, they returned to their camp to prepare for the coming storm and had no further involvement in the ‘War’. Word of the battle reached both Fort Lyons and Fort Reynolds, and Cavalry Troops were dispatched from both forts even though a blizzard with temperatures that would reach -26 degrees was blowing in. By the time the troops reached Trinidad the battle itself was over but the blizzard was still raging. The Anglo side had dispersed and was no longer barricaded in the P.B. Sherman Hotel. The Army declared Martial Law, which officially ended the hostilities.

The stagecoach driver, a man named Frank Blue did indeed escape during the blizzard along with several other men and disappeared into history, never to be heard of again.

ONE

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the tranquil blue tended to lull the unwary into a day-dreaming state that could quickly turn deadly. I wasn’t lulled, nor would I allow my men to be. All eyes constantly scanned the surrounding terrain for suspicious movement, ears tuned above the jangle of bits, sabers, and clomp of hooves for a yell or a shot.

None of us liked these narrow lanes between heavy growths of trees and brush. It was too confining. Cavalry liked more open ground where they could maneuver. I pulled out my tattered map and tried again to figure our position. In this area there were a passel of lanes, and they meandered in all directions.

This was Johnny Reb’s home ground, and we would find no friends here. Nor could we ask any questions that wouldn’t be answered by anything but lies or curses.

One of the scouts trotted back and reported there was a crossroad ahead, so I ordered my men to halt and followed the scout back to where the two roads intersected. Three other scouts were waiting there for me.

I’m twenty-two years old now. A lean, blonde haired man an inch under six feet tall. Women have called me handsome, but four years of campaigning hadn’t left me much time for them or romance. But it had given me plenty of time to learn about the art of war.

Sergeant, take Phillips and trot for fifteen minutes down this road. I ordered, pointing. If you don’t find anything by then turn around and come back. Williams, you and Edwards do the same down that one. I finished, pointing other way.

Yessir! Sergeant Taylor said, saluting. He and Phillips trotted off to the west, while Williams and Edwards took the road east. I brought the troop up and ordered a halt, letting the troopers dismount and take a break. A few minutes later Lieutenant Ankerson of second platoon approached. He was a new officer, young and just out of West Point. He had replaced Teddy Corman, who’d been killed in a skirmish by a little creek almost three months ago. I didn’t even know the name of the creek he’d died at. I was leading First platoon today because Lieutenant Told was down with dysentery again. The whole regiment was short of experienced junior officers, having lost five in action over the last two months. And no replacements were making it to us, being deep in Rebel territory like we were.

Beg your pardon, Captain.

Yes, Lieutenant?

We found a big berry patch just off the trail, sir. It’s been stripped of berries, and not long ago. There’re some squashed berries that’re still damp.

Good work, Lieutenant. Pass the word, no noise, and ready for action.

Yes sir! he said saluting. Then he turned and trotted down the line, stopping to pass the orders every few feet.

I checked the caps and loads in my pistols, then cradled the Spencer in my arms. Unlike most officers I preferred to carry a good rifle, like this Spencer. I’d been shooting rifles since I was a small boy and could knock the head off a squirrel at a hundred yards with my old hunting rifle. The Spencer wasn’t as accurate as that old rifle, but it shot seven cartridges as fast as you could work the lever and thumb back the hammer. And the 350 grain bullets it shot could surely ruin your day. It reached out a lot farther than you could with a saber.

The time seemed to crawl by. There was still a chill in the air, it being the end of March. But at least it wasn’t snowing or raining. Finally, the drumming of hooves grew, and Sergeant Taylor and trooper Phillips drew up.

Nothing to report, Sir. Taylor said as he brandished a quick salute. Not even any fresh tracks.

Second platoon found a big berry patch that’s been stripped, probably within the past couple of hours. I said. Check it out, please.

Taylor was my best scout, and a close friend. He was thirty-three, dark haired with the tanned, rugged good looks of many outdoorsmen. He had been living in Texas when the war broke out and had made his way north to join up with the Union. Before that he’d spent time in California and the Oregon country. Having been raised on the frontier, he had acquired skills that awed most of us who served with him. He could trail an ant across a bare rock, smell a campfire from two miles away and move around like a ghost when need be. He returned just as troopers Williams and Anderson trotted into view.

A company of Reb infantry was through here about two hours ago, sir. Taylor reported.

I nodded. Williams trotted up and reported. They hadn’t found anything either.

Sergeant, see if you can find out where those Rebs went. I ordered. Taylor dismounted and began walking around the crossroads. He disappeared, only to return about five minutes later.

They went into the woods straight ahead, sir. They’re staying off the road.

How deep in the woods?

Enough not to be seen, but close enough to engage anyone they come across if’n they want.

Okay, mount up. We’ll try to catch up and surprise ‘em.

The sergeant turned and ordered the Company to mount up, and the order was passed back. We were battle hardened veterans and knew better than to be yelling and bulging while in enemy territory. Each man carried at least two revolvers with them in addition to their Spencer Carbines and sabers. Percussion revolvers are slow to reload, and nothing is faster than another loaded pistol in a fight. I carried three myself, one on my belt and two in a holster bag hung on my saddle in front of me. I didn’t give a hoot if we flaunted regulations while out in the field. I had learned the hard way some regulations were better off forgotten or ignored when going into battle.

Major Hanson didn’t object, either. My men had been too successful in our engagements these past two years. He told me once it was a small price to pay for having troops he could always count on to fight the hardest and get the job done.

Courier!

A young trooper trotted up. I hastily wrote an order for the company following us. Captain Chandler should be about half a mile behind us by now. Give this to him. The trooper saluted and trotted back down the line. As soon as he cleared the troop he kicked his horse into a fast gallop and disappeared.

I ordered ‘Forward!’ and the company formed up and followed.

Half an hour later I rounded a bend in the road and saw Sergeant Taylor dismounted ahead. He mounted and trotted back to me.

Rebs about a quarter mile ahead, sir. he reported. They’re strung out along a creek in the middle of a big meadow. There’s a company there with maybe fifty men, no more. I didn’t see any farther up the creek, neither. They’ve got a few sentries posted, but none near here. They’re in poor shape, ‘an looks like they ain’t expecting company.

All right, pass the word. We attack as soon as C Company joins up with us.

The troopers checked their weapons again and waited nervously for C Company. I rode through the woods with Sergeant Taylor so the sentries wouldn’t see us and observed the Rebs through my field glasses. They were obviously worn out and in bad shape. There was no banter or horseplay that I could see, just tired men in tattered clothing flopped down soaking their feet.

We went back to the troop, but it still took another five minutes for Company C’s scouts to catch up, and five more minutes for the main body to arrive. Captain Chandler pulled up and saluted.

Jack Chandler cut a handsome figure, for he was tall and well set up. A real ladies’ man, I’d been told. He was older than me, being at least twenty-six. But he was not well liked by his troops, and his courage had been quietly questioned by many. He seemed to always be at the rear of his troops whenever a fight ensued, and had the annoying habit of spouting regulations and complaining to Major Hanson about A Company’s disregard of said regulations in the field.

His disdain for me showed on his face as he snapped his salute. I gave a sloppy return to irritate him, then pointed ahead.

We have a company of Reb Infantry in a narrow meadow ahead . I told him. It’s no more than three hundred yards wide, and they’re strung out along a creek for several hundred yards. My scout says there may be fifty men, but no more than that. Company A will attack from their right flank, which is around that bend ahead. I ordered, pointing to the woods. Your company will infiltrate through those woods and hit them in the middle, cut through them then wheel left and run up their flank. They’re thin there, and that will confuse them and keep them from rallying. We should be able to roll right over them. Then we’ll cut for the trees on the far side of the meadow and regroup. The surviving Rebs will probably take cover in the stream bed, and we can dismount and engage them from the woods if need be.

Chandler had paled as I had outlined my plan.

That’s the most foolish, ill-conceived plan of attack I’ve ever heard! he said angrily. I’ll have half a company of Rebs at my front and the other half at my back. They’ll shoot my men to pieces! I will not lead my men on any such...suicide charge!

You will lead them, Captain, and just as I have prescribed, or I will bring you up on charges! I told him levelly. Need I remind you that I have seniority, and failure to obey a superior officer in battle means a firing squad!

Chandler flushed and angrily reined his horse around and trotted back to his company.

"Kinda hard to find the rear when you have Rebs at your front and back." Sergeant Taylor said dryly.

That will be enough of that, Sergeant . I snapped. He’s still an officer, and I won’t allow any officer to be belittled in public, no matter how much he may deserve it. Pass the word we are going to roll up the Rebel’s flank, then regroup in the woods on the far side of the creek if necessary.

A few minutes later I nodded, and the bugler sounded charge. Company A followed me at the charge down the road and around the bend to the meadow where all hell broke loose.

The sentry got off one shot before we were upon him, then we wheeled to the left and up the meadow.

My troops were firing their carbines and a few Rebs were falling but the surprise didn’t last long. They had been at this a mite too and a ragged volley took its toll, cutting down several of my troopers. Then Company C charged out of the trees a bit farther down the meadow and the Rebs caught with empty rifles were at their mercy with no time to reload. My horse jumped the stream bank, and I shot a lanky, bearded Reb just as he jerked his rifle to his shoulder. My bullet took him low, maybe in the leg, and he whirled half around as his leg gave under him. His shot went high, thrown off by his fall and I dropped my rifle and pulled a revolver from my saddle holster. I charged up the meadow and my men followed. We ran right over them, running up their flank alongside that stream.

One Reb, no more than a boy from the glimpse I had of him ran out from behind a clump of willows to my left, right at me. His bayonet was leveled, and he was screaming like most of us. I felt the bayonet pierce my left calf as I shot him, and my horse seemed to pause in mid- stride as the steel shaft pierced his side after ramming through my leg. He screamed in agony, as did I. The rifle was jerked around as he passed and was torn from the falling Reb’s hands. It ripped my horse’s lung from back to front. His head snapped around to the right and he fell heavily on his left side. I was pinned to him by the blade as he fell, and suddenly the ground rose and smacked me, knocking me silly.

I could feel the blade snap as the weight of my horse fell on the rifle, and everything went gray. There was a smoky taste in my mouth, my head was spinning, and my leg felt like it was on fire. I was pinned to the ground by the weight of the horse on my leg, and I had lost my revolver. I could hear the screams and sounds of battle again, but it took a second for my wits to return enough to allow me to move.

My horse began to struggle, trying to climb back to his feet. A bloody froth spewed from his nostrils, and his wild thrashing ripped the stub of the bayonet from my leg and I almost fainted from the pain of it. The only thing that had saved me so far from the weight of his fall was the soft earth around the streambed. I drew my belt revolver and shot him in between his ears. The shot killed him instantly, and he collapsed back onto me. I had liked that horse, he had been a game mount.

Then I had no time for thoughts of him as a figure appeared with rifle in hand, and he swung the barrel toward me and fired. He either had a misfire or had forgotten to reload in the confusion for there was nothing but the sound of a snap. He stared at me for a brief second as I brought the Colt up. He tried to turn and run, but my bullet caught him, and he fell out of sight on the far side of my horse’s body. I tried to sit up, but the pain when I moved turned the world gray again and I fell back, the breath feeling like it had been sucked out of my body. I prayed I’d either killed him, or he was wounded or running away as I was helpless if he reloaded and moved to one side or the other to shoot me.

Then Sergeant Taylor’s face was above mine, staring down at me.

How are you, Capt’n?

Sore hurt, Sergeant, but alive. Can you get this horse off me?

He turned and roared at two nearby troopers. Boyce! Tatum! Get over here and help me get the captain out from under this horse!

The two men jumped from their mounts as John dug a trench beside my leg with the big Bowie knife he always carried.

Then with Boyce pulling at the head and Tatum lifting at the shoulders they managed to pull my leg free in just a few minutes.

Doesn’t look too bad, sir. Taylor said a moment later after examining my leg. It’s a clean hole, and your leg bone don’t look busted none.

How’s the troop?

The Rebs have surrendered, sir, them that’re still able. Seems most was out of ammo, or didn’t have time to reload. They know this shebang is about over too, and I don’t guess many of them wanted to be killed when it’s almost time to go home.

I had the troop set sentries and sent for wagons for the prisoners and the wounded. The Rebs were too done in to have marched all the way back to the regiment, and I didn’t want to tie up a bunch of my men on such a long, slow march anyway. I wasn’t feeling up to a long ride right off neither, truth to tell, and a mite of a rest would do me good. I wasn’t anxious to go to that field hospital again if I didn’t have to. I’d been there two times before, and both times had been wretched. I wasn’t about to have one of them doctors saw off my leg just because of a little hole, and that one doctor with the long beard seemed partial to cutting off limbs and things. Sergeant Taylor’s poultices seemed to work as well as the carbolic and stuff the doctors used anyhow. He was our unofficial doctor for wounds that weren’t too serious.

Sir?

I looked up and saw Sergeant Taylor approaching.

The prisoners are fed, sir, and the wounded tended to. We have two dead, ten wounded including yourself. Trooper Williams is hard hit through the body though, and I don’t think he’ll last to the hospital. The Rebs have seven dead, sixteen wounded, although several of them were already wounded before our little set-to. Two of those don’t look like they’ll last much longer either. There’s only forty-four able-bodied men, though they’re so tuckered and starved they can’t march much farther, sir. The Reb Sergeant-Major sends his respects and requests to see you, sir. Their officers have all been killed or wounded in the past couple ‘a days and he’s the highest rank left.

Very well, Sergeant. Bring him over.

A few minutes later Sergeant Taylor and a tall lanky scarecrow of a man came over. The man was limping heavily, and had a fresh bandage wrapped around his thigh. I saw it was the bearded man I’d shot in the leg earlier. He pulled himself to attention and saluted. If he recognized me as the man who shot him, he gave no sign of it. Things like that were to be expected in battle.

Sergeant-Major Joshua Williams, 3rd Texas Volunteers Sir!

I returned his salute and shifted to a more comfortable position. Make yourself comfortable, Sergeant-Major.

He gingerly lowered himself to the ground and stretched his leg out.

I appreciate your generous treatment of my men, Sir. Many wouldn’t have bothered.

We’re enemies by politics, Sergeant, that’s all. Hopefully this unpleasantness will be over soon and we can all go back to whatever lives we had before.

The man looked down at the ground and didn’t reply. I’m sure I’d have felt as bad if it was my side that was losing the war and not his.

I hope things will go that way, Sir. he said after a minute, But seems there’s a mess of people on both sides what only hanker to kill them that they have come to hate, and a piece ‘a paper mightn’t mean much to them.

Then they’ll end up hanging from some gallows, or be shot down by their enemies or the law if they don’t honor the peace. Comes a time every war must end and both sides make peace. A man can’t kill all his enemies, no matter how long he fights. We’ve all lost family and friends, both sides. But now it’s time to put their deaths behind us and look to making a future for all of us still left alive.

Them’s good words, Captain. I’ll pass them on to my boys if’n you don’t mind.

Not at all.

Guess the war’s over fer us anyhow. Hard ta give ya a good fight when we’re out of powder, lead, food and men. Don’t reckon it’ll last much longer no way. Ain’t many of us left from what was a few years ago.

Yes, but you gave us a good fight, Sergeant. You’ll always have that. I told him. And it was true enough. Most men on both sides were brave and fought well enough. All were scared, and usually tired, dirty, and just wishing they were back home again. Those with notions of glory and heroic deeds were usually either dead or disillusioned after their first or second battle. There were many who deserted as well, not finding soldiering to their liking. The Rebs especially suffered from desertions, with some saying they’d had over a hundred thousand men desert so far.

If’n I might ask the captain, what’s gunna happen to us? Will we be paroled, or sent to a prison, sir?

I’m afraid I don’t know, Sergeant. That will be up to the Regimental Commander. I’ve heard he’s been less inclined to parole prisoners anymore as there seem to be some breaking their parole and taking up arms against us again.

He nodded. There’s been a few that I know of done that. They’re the ones with so much hate in ‘em they don’t care about nothing but shooting bluebel...er...you Yankees, sir. Honor don’t even mean nothing to them anymore. They just live to kill.

I nodded. You don’t have any officers left? I asked.

No sir, Lieutenant Boode was killed yesterday. We had us a fight with some of you Yanks just north of here and lost him and ten others. We been fighting and on the move for two weeks straight now. Ain’t had time or the will to elect no more officers, and don’t look like we’ll need to now.

How’s your leg, Sergeant? Has it received proper medical care?

Yes sir. It wasn’t deep, just cut across some muscle.

He stood up painfully and saluted, and I returned it.

Thank you for your time, sir. If’n I might, what is the captain’s name?

Shy Boedecker, Sergeant.

He nodded. If’n we meet again after the war, I’d be proud to shake your hand, Sir.

And I to shake yours, Sergeant-Major.

Taylor took him back to his men as I began writing out my report of the skirmish. My leg ached, and the insects were driving me mad. After finishing the report, I leaned back to rest, but fell into an exhausted sleep seconds later. When I awoke it was almost dark and my leg was throbbing terribly. I sat up and Sergeant Taylor appeared out of nowhere to report on the status of the troop. He replaced the poultices on my leg, then had a private bring me a plate of beans and hardtack. I washed it down with plenty of hot coffee, then lay down again. I felt hot, and my leg was stiff and swollen and my face and neck itched from bug bites. I drifted off again and didn’t wake until morning. I managed to hobble behind the tree I was laying under and relieve myself. Then I tried to hobble over to where Sergeant Taylor would be, but my leg wouldn’t let me. After only a few steps I had to turn back and sit down again. That bayoneted leg throbbed so bad I was afraid it would split in half, and my hip was bruised and hurt like the dickens from being twisted about when my horse fell on it. Sergeant Taylor had seen me hobbling about, and hurried to my side.

Can I get the captain some breakfast? he asked.

I don’t think I could eat right now Sergeant, but thanks.

The wagons will be here within the hour, sir. he said, handing me a cup of coffee. Then he gave me the morning report and advised Company C had returned from their scout. I had Captain Chandler report to me, and he was as surly as ever. After dismissing him Sergeant Taylor looked at my leg again. He removed the poultices and drained a small bit of pus from my leg. I near screamed when he opened the wound a bit and squeezed to drain it. He wrapped it with strips of blanket soaked in hot water and told me keep resting. I didn’t have any really bad infection he said, and he believed it should heal up nicely.

The wagons arrived and I took off my saber and sat next to the teamster on one of the wagons loaded with wounded. I had wanted to ride a horse, but just the movement of hobbling to the wagon convinced me that would be foolish. It would serve no purpose to suffer and keep my wound aggravated, making it fester worse and maybe end up with gangrene and losing it.

It took all day and some of the night for the wagons to reach where the Regiment was bivouacked just outside a city named Petersburg. After reporting to Major Hanson, I had